


My feet can’t touch the bottom of you

by ohmybgosh



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: A little sad but not too sad!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i guess?, king steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25360081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: Billy shuts down too much, sometimes
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96
Collections: harringrove for BLM





	My feet can’t touch the bottom of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImNeitherNor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/gifts).



> For you bb <33 ily and I hope you like this!! 
> 
> The title is from the song Moon Song by Phoebe Bridgers because I’m terrible at coming up with titles and her new album is impeccable

The radio buzzed, barely turned up, an unintelligible murmur through the speakers against the hum of Steve’s new car. 

Not new exactly, new to him, but actually relatively old, old enough that the heat sputtered feebly from the vents and sometimes refused to turn on at all. The car was a piece of crap, but it was another lesson from his father, who refused to pay for one. Steve had found this one, and though it sometimes just decided not to turn on (“It’s not  _ sleeping _ , Steve, Jesus. The battery’s old as fuck, you definitely need to replace it,” Billy would sigh in exasperation when Steve, after trying to start the car several times with no luck, would sit back and say merrily, “She’s still taking a nap, let’s give her a minute.”) he was proud to say he paid for the old thing all by himself. 

This particular evening, the heat didn’t want to work, and the vents rattled valiantly against the chill of late November that had slowly crept up while Hawkins least expected it, still enraptured with the dying leaves and the remnants of Halloween. 

Billy, who sat in the passenger seat, glared at the vents, arms crossed, and huffed, breath puffing out against the frosted windshield. 

Steve spared him a look. They’d been arguing about music; Billy wanted music, Steve obsessively listened to the news channels. 

“You ok?”

Billy shifted, facing the passenger window. 

Steve sighed and looked back at the mostly deserted road. He reached out to turn up the sound. 

“Can we just sit in silence for one second?”

Steve bit his lip, brow furrowing, but gripped the steering wheel with both hands once more. 

“Sure.”

He spotted a neon  _ 7 Eleven  _ sign ahead and slowed, signaling and pulling up to a gas pump. 

He turned the car off and sat for a minute, debating, and glanced over at Billy, who still refused to look at him. 

“I’m gonna grab some gas. Do you want anything?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled back. 

“Ok.” He reached out to squeeze Billy’s tense shoulder. Billy’s frown, reflected against the neon lights shining through the passenger window, flickered for a moment, but He remained still. 

“Be right back,” Steve said, opening his door and hopping out. 

He jogged to the gas station, pushing open the door and heading toward the counter, where a middle aged woman sat, cigarette smoldering delicately between her manicured fingernails, a crisp and shiny magazine open on the counter in front of her. 

Steve hesitated and went towards the snack aisle, grabbing a Cosmic Brownie and an Oatmeal Creme Pie. He stopped when he spotted the coffee pot, too, grabbed two styrofoam cups and made two coffees - both with cream, one with sugar. He carried all of this to the counter, setting the cups and snacks down carefully to fish around in his jacket pocket with cold fingers for a crumpled wad of bills. 

“Evening, dear,” the cashier said, setting her cigarette in an ashtray with care, and swiping her magazine to the side. 

“How’s it going,” Steve smiled. “Can I get ten on two, also, please?”

“Sure thing,” she said sweetly, and began ringing up his items. 

Behind her, a small radio sat, and over the beeping of the cash register Steve could make out WH 97.4.

“ _...no snow, but we’ll be getting a hefty frost this evening, folks, temperature’s down to 25 de-grees…” _

“$12.45, sweetheart.”

Steve passed over the bills, giving the cashier an apologetic smile as she smoothed them over. She passed him the change and he shoved it back into his pocket, gathering the coffee and snacks, tossing a “have a great night!” over his shoulder as he pushed the glass door open with difficulty. 

He made it back to the car, setting the cups and snacks on the roof for a moment. He glanced at Billy, who still had his arms crossed but was looking out the windshield now not with a glare, but those nervous darting eyes, his back hunched as if to make himself as small as possible. He didn’t like the dark, Steve knew, and he liked being alone even less so, though he never brought it up. 

Steve tapped on the windshield so the sound of the gas pump wouldn’t scare him. Billy jerked around, eyes wide, and Steve waved and pointed to the pump. 

Billy swallowed and looked away, resuming his glare in Steve’s presence. 

Steve pumped the gas, doing a little jig to keep his toes from freezing, and replaced the nozzle when he was done, grabbing the snacks and darting back to the drivers side. He climbed in and started the car, successfully. The heat shuddered pitifully, lukewarm air ghosting across their faces from the vents, smelling vaguely like dust and gym socks. 

He passed Billy the brownie and the coffee with cream and sugar, and set his own cup in the cup holder, rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back into his fingers. 

Billy stared at the coffee and brownie he now held. His eyes looked shiny, like the way they did when Max hugged him tightly, when Susan left dinner for him and Steve with little hearts on the note, when he glanced at his dad’s easychair - sinking still from overuse though no one had touched it almost five months, dust making itself at home atop the faded upholstery. 

He set them down after a second. “I said I didn’t want anything.”

Steve bit his lip again. “Well you have them.”

“ _ Fine _ .”

“Fine.”

“Can we go?”

“Sure.” He picked up his coffee, taking an annoyed sip. “Actually, just a second.”

He turned to face Billy. 

“What’s the matter?”

Billy scoffed. “Nothing.”

“No really,” Steve pressed, nostrils flaring. He could feel his pulse picking up and he knew he shouldn't be getting angry but he was cold and irritable, and he was starting to get the heart-racing panic that happened too often when someone was cross with him. It was the panic that came with a harsh voice, a slammed door and a lesson he had to learn, or else a gentle voice, a confession in a bathroom and the sinking realization that he had never been truly loved and he was terrified that he never would be. 

“Nothing,” Billy snapped. “Why does something always have to be wrong for you? Why do we always have to talk about it?”

Steve swallowed painfully. 

“Don’t do that,” he said hoarsely. 

“Do what?”

“This,” Steve waved his hand at Billy, whose arms were crossed, and Steve breathlessly, “Don’t shut me out, you always do. You don’t want to deal with it all but you’ve gotta, I’m sorry. And it’s not a bad thing, it’s ok to feel like this, and it’s good to cry sometimes, too. I know you hate being emotional but sometimes you just have to.”

Billy blinked at him. He changed rapidly, from a red and angry expression with furrowed brows, to wilting, his shoulders hunching to his ears and his eyes going watery. 

Steve’s expression softened. “I cry all the time.”

Billy scrubbed wearily at his face but the corners of his mouth quirked up, that begrudging smile of his that made Steve’s heart skip a beat every time because the fact that he could make Billy smile still felt too good to be true. 

“Maybe too much,” Billy said. 

Steve smiled. He reached across the car, finding Billy’s hand that trembled slightly, and took it in his own, knitting their fingers together and smoothing his thumb along Billy’s scarred knuckles which were tinged green from the light, the  _ 7 Eleven  _ sign above casting a ghostly glow over his pale skin. 

With his free hand, Billy rubbed his watery eyes. 

“It’s Dad’s birthday,” he said after a moment, so quiet Steve almost missed it. “I don’t want to be sad he’s gone. But I keep thinking about this time Mom took us to the park on his birthday. She made a cake but I dropped it, and I thought he’d be mad but he just laughed. Sometimes - ” Billy took a shuddering breath, closing his eyes, and squeezed Steve’s hand tightly. “Sometimes I’m really sad he’s gone. And I should be glad, right?”

“Billy,” Steve said shakily, tears running freely down his cheeks. “You can be both.”

Billy sniffed, shook his head slightly, and opened his eyes. When he looked at Steve he smiled. 

“Definitely too much,” he chuckled, and reached over to brush the tears from Steve’s face. He left his hand there, cupping Steve’s jaw, thumbs pressed into the side of Steve’s nose. Steve’s eyelids fluttered close and Billy leaned over to kiss him.

“Thanks, Harrington,” he murmured against Steve’s lips, and pressed one more kiss to the tip of Steve’s nose before leaning back in his seat. 

“Anytime.” Steve smiled weakly, heart thudding in his chest because he still wasn’t used to this, the swooping sensation that shivered down his body from head to toe when Billy kissed him, like the floor had disappeared from beneath his feet. He wondered for a moment if he’d ever get over the butterflies.

After a moment, Billy picked up his brownie, the wrapper crinkling as he peeled it open, and took a bite.  “Can we go home now?”

  
  
  
  



End file.
